Each time I stand in front of a mirror,confronting myself, razor in hand,|I go through the same old routineHot water (as hot as you can stand, my father said),Just a little too much foam or gel dripping between fingers on my left handI smear it across my face, like a little kidWho hasn't quite grown up.

As I start to scrape away the tough few days of growthMy mind always touches upon the same place and time.

Standing in the Broughshane bathroom in the summer of 89As I stand guard, feeding the cats and house-sitting.She's in France with her mother and father.I'm alone, with the bright August morning outside, with the hot water (as hot as you can stand) and the careful tracing of razor over face begins

Somehow, when steel kisses skin, I'm back there.Every time I shave, it's that time I shaved.That house, that bathroom, that morning,Twenty years ago.

A lifetime of ritual reducedTo a single bittersweet time and placeAnticipating a future that never happened.

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I wrote this story, or a version of it, back in 1993 or 1994. I can't remember why I wrote it, but I remember letting some people read it. I have no idea what happened to it, so I rewrote it from memory. It's 16 or 17 years later, so obviously this version is different, but I'd love to compare it to the original. In addition, the final line has gone through several edits since i posted this. I think it's done now, though.